


This Ain't Jump Street

by thecheekydragon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, FBI Agent Derek, High School, Jump Street, M/M, Murder, POV Stiles, Teacher Allison, Undercover Cops, Veterinarian Scott, community: sterek_big_bang, cop stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-08 01:00:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecheekydragon/pseuds/thecheekydragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Detective Stilinski goes undercover at a local high school to catch a killer and meets hot gym teacher Derek Hale.  Stiles just hopes Hale is not the killer. But then again, he always did fall for the wrong sort of guy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Ain't Jump Street

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [sterek_big_bang](http://sterek-big-bang.livejournal.com) on LJ. 
> 
> [Art](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1127043) is by the amazing and talented [superfluous_emi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperfluousEmi/pseuds/SuperfluousEmi). You rock, bb!
> 
> Note 1: This story includes a full cast of TW characters, although many of them stray away from the overall canon timeline. (See End Notes for further details)
> 
> Note 2: Title is in reference to 21 Jump Street.

  


Stiles arched his back and let out a truly filthy moan as Tall, Dark and Scruffy thrust up into him, hitting that sweet spot that made Stiles gasp and his eyes roll back in his head.

They were crammed into the backseat of a Camaro, presumably belonging to TDS (Stiles hadn’t asked the guy his name and the guy hadn’t volunteered it so TDS it was). Stupid muscle cars and their stupid almost non-existent back seats, he thought. But then his Jeep had absolutely no back seat so he had no room to talk, really. They barely had room to move but Stiles couldn’t have cared less. Because Tall, Dark and Sexy as Fuck had his cock shoved up to balls inside of him and Stiles was riding the man like a veritable porn star.

It had started with Epic Eyesexing in The Wolf Den, a nightclub on the east side of the city Stiles liked to hang at during his down time, that had escalated to Groping on the Dance Floor. The next thing Stiles knew, TDS was grabbing his hand and pulling him along through the club. Stiles had thought they were going to the bathrooms to engage in a little Blow n’ Stroke and was pleasantly surprised when TDS led him out to the parking lot behind the club and into the back seat of a black Camaro.

Here, pants had been unceremoniously pulled open and yanked off, holes had been lubed up and stretched, condoms had been rolled on, and dicks had been thrust – well, a dick anyway. 

“Nngh…fuck, _Jesus_ , fuck… _fuck_ ,” Stiles expressed incoherently as teeth scraped over his left nipple. Stiles could very much appreciate how good of a sex multi-tasker TDS was. The man was thrusting up into Stiles while slamming Stiles’ hips down. He had also somehow managed to pull Stiles’ shirt apart and was now sucking on and tugging at Stiles’ nipples with his mouth and teeth. Fuck, the guy had talent.

Another string of dirty expletives slipped out of Stiles’ mouth as TDS turned his attention from Stiles’ nipples to his neck and moved his hands from Stiles’ hips to his hard, leaking cock.

Okay, so Stiles was maybe a bit of a slut. But, holy God, he hadn’t been fucked this good in so fucking long.

TDS got a total of five strokes in before Stiles erupted, shooting all over the front of the man’s sinfully tight black V-neck.

“Sorry, dude,” Stiles managed before collapsing onto the man’s chest, sweat-soaked and panting.

TDS thrust hard up into Stiles three more times before his hips jerked then stilled, filling the latex tip to capacity with his seed. Stiles was glad to see that the man had at least broken a sweat and was panting almost as hard as Stiles.

As soon as the aftershocks of orgasm wore off, TDS lifted Stiles off his lap and Stiles shimmied back into his jeans and re-buttoned his shirt. He gave TDS only a cursory glance before hopping over the console to the front passenger seat and opening the door. 

“See you around,” he tossed over his shoulder, as he exited the Camaro, not even bothering to wait for a reply.

What? Stiles was under no delusions here. He knew what this was. It was a hook up, plain and simple. A bit of fun. There wasn’t going to be any exchange of names or phone numbers. Only the memory of the guy’s dick inside of him, his mouth and hand working Stiles to beautiful orgasm. That’s all it could ever be.

Yeah. Stiles really was a slut.

When he had agreed to do this undercover assignment, Stiles didn’t think he’d have to chase down the mark – _on foot_ – across ten blocks and down a sketchy alleyway. And, really, were all the neighbourhoods in this end of the city in need of serious rejuvenation or what? It was LA, for fuck’s sake. Seedy was bad for tourism. He certainly hadn’t planned on getting clipped by an Italian mobster low on the totem pole (or whatever the hell the Italian equivalent was of a totem) who was, to be absolutely frank, a lousy shot.

Stiles pressed a hand to his left shoulder to stem the flow of blood now pouring from the hole there. The bullet had missed his heart by a good three inches – thank fuck – but a second shot at close range would surely do the trick. And even this guy, piss-poor shot or not, couldn’t miss, not at his current vantage point, which was standing over Stiles, his finger on the trigger, ready to fire.

Fuck.

“You ruined my shirt, dude,” Stiles said, coughing. “Bitch cost me three-fucking-fifty. And it was my favourite.” Stiles pouted. The light blue Dolce & Gabbana shirt was Stiles’ favourite out of the ones he’d been wearing during his cover as the young nightclub manager. Man, why couldn’t it have been the dull gray Ralph Lauren one that didn’t do much to highlight his pale skin tones or to bring out his eyes?

If the ‘no fucks given’ expression on his face was any indication, the guy had zero sympathy for Stiles’ loss. 

“Come on, Armando,” Stiles now appealed. “Do you really want to add capping a cop to your rap sheet? Right now you’re looking at, what, ten to twenty for the variety of crimes you’ve committed?” Armando would have to answer to a different authority for the crimes against fashion he committed every day by wearing the black suit, black shirt, red tie combo but Stiles figured he’d keep that to himself, given the man’s current state of mind. “If you pull that trigger, that’s life, man. Probably the death penalty. That’ll suck for sure.”

Armando lifted his eyebrow and said wryly, “Death penalty’s still on hold in this state, remember?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Won’t stop them from putting you in the queue with the seven hundred others waiting to be gassed--”

“Injected--”

“—whatever,” Stiles dismissed. “You’re a classy guy, Armando. Death Row is beneath you.”

Armando barked out a laugh. “You’re a funny guy, Jimmy,” he said. “And I mean that sincerely. If you weren’t a fucking cop, I think we could’ve been good friends. Family even.”

Stiles sighed. Armando had had his hopes up that Jimmy/Stiles would marry his sister Rosa. It was probably safe to say that was off the table now, which in hindsight was good for Rosa because Stiles was more than a little gay.

“I’m touched, Mando,” he said. “I really am.” And the thing was Stiles wasn’t even lying. He was touched in a weird sort of way. Armando wasn’t a bad guy, aside from the whole running drugs and pimping out prostitutes from his nightclub thing. Stiles really did like the man. Reyes always accused him of falling in like with the marks that were part of their undercover gigs.

“I’m sorry,” Armando said softly and Stiles could tell he meant it. 

He prepared himself for the shot, thinking briefly of his dad and Scott, the two people he loved most in the world. His dad would be devastated and angry for sure and Stiles could only hope that his dad would forgive him for getting himself killed. Scott wouldn’t know what to do with himself but, luckily, his best friend had Allison and a baby on the way to help him get through Stiles’ death. It wouldn’t be so bad, he thought. They’d grieve and mourn but they’d eventually get over it, move on. His dad and Scott were tough like that.

The shot, however, didn’t come. Instead, a long, tanned leg came into Stiles’ vision and delivered a well-executed front kick to Armando’s gun-wielding hand followed by a powerful roundhouse kick to the man’s sternum, knocking Armando flat on his back. Erica Reyes, Stiles’ more-often-than-not undercover partner had a stiletto heel pressed to Armando’s chest, her glock aimed at his head.

“Hey, Reyes,” Stiles greeted with a grin then winced, his shoulder hurting. 

Reyes flicked a glance at him, cocked an eyebrow, then trained her sight back on Armando who grunted when Reyes pressed her heel more firmly into his sternum. Stiles knew Reyes wouldn’t think twice of stabbing Armando through the chest with the sharp heel of her stiletto if the man so much as made a move. Stiles wondered why the woman even bothered to carry a gun.

“Go easy on Mando, Reyes,” Stiles told her. “He’s had a shitty day.”

“Yeah? Me too,” Reyes replied. “I broke a fucking nail, Stilinski.”

Stiles coughed out a laugh as Reyes tapped the communication device at her ear. 

“Yeah Coach, we got him,” she said. “But you’re gonna need to send an ambulance.” She huffed out a sigh. “Stilinski’s down.”

Recovering from a bullet wound to the shoulder turned out to be pretty fucking boring. Stiles spent six days in the hospital (he should have stayed ten but the doctor who had repaired the bone damage to his shoulder and the nurses who got stuck looking after him grew tired of him really quick and decided to discharge him early to get him out of their hair) then began a four month period of convalescence – three months during which he had to wear a sling – at home, away from the job.

During this time, he helped Scott paint the nursery (Scott did the painting, Stiles did the supervising) for the baby girl due in a little over three months – Stiles insisted they go with a Merida from Disney’s _Brave_ theme because girls wielding bows were freaking awesome – and accompanied Allison to baby class whenever Scott was working late at his newly opened veterinarian clinic. (They had the instructor convinced that Stiles was really Allison’s baby daddy and kept the charade going by urging her not to say anything to Scott. Poor Scott didn’t know what to make of the woman’s pointed looks of pity much to Stiles’ and Allison’s amusement.) 

Because there was only so much convalescing he could do, Stiles made a habit of dropping by the Special Investigations floor every Monday and Thursday to see what the gang was up to. He tried not to feel too offended that Coach rolled his eyes every time Stiles stepped out of the elevator on the sixth floor. Stiles even let Reyes put him in a headlock and give him a hair noogie every time he visited just to get a laugh out of Lahey and Boyd. 

Stiles thought about wiling away his recovery time at The Wolf Den, maybe hooking up with Tall, Dark and Must Be a Sex God from a few months back but he didn’t feel much in the mood. Which was weird. Because Stiles was always in the mood for sex. But apparently getting shot could induce depression, which could have an effect on the sex drive, or so the therapist he’d been ordered to see had told him.

As soon as he had been cleared to do so, Stiles had gone to the shooting range and had emptied three clips of his standard issue into a bunch of targets, every one of the rounds meeting its mark dead center. His therapist explained that this was part of his need to regain control in his life and that it was common among police officers who had been shot in the course of duty. Stiles wasn’t about to argue with her but the only need he had, frankly, was to relieve his boredom. Well, that, and to get away from Scott and Allison once in a while (his best friends were wonderful people but they were sometimes a little too much for Stiles to take as a sickeningly-in-love-with-a-baby-on-the-way couple.) Plus, he just really liked to shoot at things. 

He had just come from his daily visit to the shooting range and was sitting in Scott and Allison’s backyard having a beer with Scott while Allison made dinner for the three of them (Stiles had an apartment of his own but he rarely used it. He spent most of his time at Scott and Allison’s, oftentimes sleeping on their couch in the den or on a makeshift futon in the room that used to be the ‘guest room’ before it was turned into the baby’s nursery.)

“I’m worried about Allison,” Scott told him, taking a pull from his bottle of beer. “This is – what – the second murder in three months? And both of those girls were from Allison’s high school.”

Scott was referring to the murders of two high school students – both of whom had attended the high school where Allison taught history. The latest murder had happened only last week, the killing before that only a month and a half ago. 

“You guys going to be catching that case?” Scott asked. 

Stiles shrugged. He had talked about the murders with Reyes on Monday when they had had lunch together. Reyes had heard talk that their specialty unit might get called in to help with the case but Coach hadn’t said anything about it yet. Stiles was cleared to return to work the following week so it was possible they were waiting until he was back before setting up some kind of plan. It was difficult to say, though. Their unit mostly dealt with undercover assignments that pertained to drug busts, money laundering schemes, prostitution rings and things like that. They hadn’t worked a straight murder case yet – at least not one that seemed more like the work of a serial killer than an organized crime boss. Those sorts of cases generally drew the attention of the FBI not the LAPD. 

Still, Stiles understood Scott’s concerns regarding his wife, especially since Allison was heading into her third trimester (hey, Stiles _learned_ stuff in baby class). Two girls had been killed by what might be the same killer and both had been students at the high school where Allison was a teacher. It wasn’t just Scott who was worried about Allison. _Stiles_ was worried about her too.

“I’d just feel better if you were on the case,” Scott said, finishing off his beer. 

“Couldn’t convince her to go on maternity leave early, huh?” Stiles said, taking a pull from his own bottle. If he knew Scott, and Stiles definitely did, his first tactic would have been to appeal to his wife to leave her job until they caught the killer. 

“No,” Scott mumbled unhappily.

Stiles grinned. He also knew Allison and there was no way she would have agreed to go on maternity leave early for reasons other than an immediate threat to her or her baby’s health. And Allison would not consider a killer on the loose with possible ties to her place of employment an immediate threat. She was stubborn (and awesome, Stiles thought) like that. 

Allison slid open the patio door. “Dinner’s ready,” she informed them.

Scott smiled at his wife in that love-struck way that made Stiles gag a little but he was willing to let it pass this time without comment. Instead, he leaned toward Scott as he stood and said, “I’ll let you know if I hear anything when I’m back next week.” 

Then, just because he couldn’t resist being an ass, he walked into the kitchen, caught Allison from behind, stretching his arms around her ample stomach, and proceeded to give her a wet, sloppy kiss, making sure to slip his tongue inside. He heard Scott squawk indignantly and both he and Allison chuckled.

What? He may be (mostly) a gay man, but he had to keep up the pretence of having fake-fathered his best friend’s wife’s baby. Lascivious kissing in the kitchen was totally necessary, okay?

They were assembled around the table in what Coach liked to call “The Locker Room”, a small room on the floor of the Special Investigations Division designated for their specialty undercover unit that was comprised of Stiles, Reyes, Boyd, Lahey and their captain, Finstock.

Finstock, who insisted they call him ‘Coach’ (Stiles didn’t have a fucking clue why – maybe his captain had coached little league baseball or something, who the fuck knew?), was handing out briefs and filling them in on their next undercover gig.

“There have been two murders at Lincoln High in the past three months,” Coach said. “Vics were both girls, age seventeen. M.O. strangulation with post-mortem mutilation.”

Stiles flipped through the Coroner’s report and the photos of the victims, trying his best to keep a stoic expression. He’d been on the job for five years now and it never got easy. Especially when the victims were young. And these girls had been students at the high school where Allison taught.

“And by post-mortem mutilation, you mean they had their hearts ripped or carved out,” Reyes commented dryly, flipping through her own set of graphic crime scene and autopsy photos.

Stiles had to admire the woman. Out of all of them, Reyes was generally the least squeamish but there was no way he would say that out loud in front of Boyd. Nope. Not gonna happen.

“Preliminary investigation suggests the perp knew these girls and had easy access to them,” Coach was saying. “A teacher, another student, a staff member. Someone connected to the school.”

“The Plan is to go in and flush out the perp by covering various angles. Boyd will pose as a janitor and Lahey as a teacher’s aid. Reyes will be in the office close to student records, personnel files and secretarial gossip. Stilinski will go in as a student.”

“Wait. What?” Stiles squawked indignantly. “Why can’t Reyes be the student?” Stiles had no desire to repeat high school. His first time through had been traumatic enough.

“You think anyone’ll buy I’m seventeen with these tits?” Reyes said, pushing her ample very-not-seventeen bosom into Stiles’ face. She grinned widely at him. “You, on the other hand, can easily still pass for twelve.”

“Hey!” Stiles protested. He knew he had a young face (so many times he had to have Coach confirm that he was actually a detective and not some kid impersonating a police officer) but there was no reason for Reyes to goad him about it.

“Reyes, get your boobs out of Stilinski’s face,” Coach said. Reyes winked at Stiles before removing her bosom and settling back into her seat. 

“She’s right,” Coach said, eyeing Stiles’ plaid over t-shirt wardrobe combo in assessment. What? He was an undercover cop and could wear whatever he wanted. “Lose the badge and gun, upgrade your hair to whatever boy band style is popular these days and you’re fucking seventeen again, Stilinski.” Coach narrowed his eyes judgementally at Stiles. “Which is pathetic. But in the current circumstances, very useful.”

Reyes snickered and Stiles patted the gun nestled against his ribs, snug in its holster under his shirt. Yeah, sure, he _looked_ like a teenager but they let him carry a gun, didn’t they? And if there was one thing Stiles knew how to handle, it was a firearm. It didn’t matter – revolver, pistol, rifle, shotgun, bazooka – he was a damn good shot. The perks of growing up a sheriff’s kid, he supposed, and hours spent at the shooting range.

They spent the afternoon holed up in The Locker Room going over Lincoln High’s personnel records in preparation for their newly assigned undercover gig, paying particular attention to recent changes in staff. In the past six months, three new teachers had come to Lincoln High. Two of the newcomers – Ms. Blake and Mr. Deucalion – had been teaching at the high school when both murders had occurred. Lahey, who was the most organized of their little group (which was probably the reason he had been assigned to the role of ‘teacher’s aid’, Stiles guessed), made a note to do a second check (the LAPD Homicide Unit had already done a preliminary investigation of all staff) of the three new hires as well as those they had replaced. There had been no changes in office staff in the past year but a new janitor had come to the high school two weeks ago. Lahey efficiently added the man to their ‘second check’ list.

They ordered in Thai food (Stiles and Reyes collectively winning over Boyd’s choice of burgers and Lahey’s vote for sushi) and spent the evening developing a “plan”, focusing on how they would work their assigned roles into effectively investigating likely suspects. 

It was two in the morning when they finally called it quits. Stiles massaged fingers into his temples, his head feeling like it was going to explode. He had figured he’d gradually warm up to the role of high school student, but his dread at having to re-live those trying teenage years (even if it was only pretend) continued to expand, especially after Reyes and Boyd helpfully reminded him that he’d be a “minor” once again – in several ways than one.

Yeah. Did he mention Finstock was an evil, sadistic bastard whose sole ambition was to make Stiles’ life a fucking, living hell? He was sure he was going to wake up with a face full of acne from the sheer, fucking stress of it all.

Stiles raced down the hallway, looking for classroom 324B. He had no clue what terrible things he had done in his life that had gotten him stuck having to go back to high school. (He was sure his dad could come up with a few. Probably a few dozen even. But Stiles preferred to pretend he was the victim here.)

Still, it sucked being a seventeen-year-old high school student again. Especially since he didn’t have Scott with him this time. He and Scott hadn’t exactly been popular when they were in high school. Stiles’ tendency to shoot his mouth (sans filter most of the time) and Scott’s less-than-stellar sports skills due to his chronic asthma had pretty much kept them from climbing the high school social ladder, but at least they had had each other. All Stiles had now was twenty-five years of accumulated experience and some bitter memories from years spent as an awkward, nerdy teenager. 

He was late. The bell for first period had sounded nearly five minutes ago, but Stiles had been momentarily delayed having had “issues” with the combination lock to the locker he had been assigned. (He could clear, disassemble, and reassemble an M16A2 rifle in 32 seconds but he had gotten bested by a fucking hunk of metal that a six D-cell Maglite in the hands of the right and highly trained person could have destroyed without fuss. It was fucking embarrassing, really.)

Stiles managed to stumble onto Classroom 324 _A_ but 324 _B_ continued to elude him. Who had designed this freaking high school? A fucking maze planner? Seriously. Another half a minute and he was finally pushing open the door to the classroom of the first period class on his schedule.

His entrance drew the gaze of thirty-odd students, some looking at him with interest, most just looking apathetically bored. Allison – or _Mrs. McCall_ , rather – turned from the blackboard, her eyebrows lifting. Stiles quickly crossed the room and handed her the sheet the office had given him (it had actually been Reyes who had given him the paper; she had grinned with wicked glee at the sight of him with gel-mussed hair, plaid shirt and backpack-clad), giving Allison a surreptitious look of apology. He hadn’t meant to disrupt her class with his tardiness. 

Allison returned his look with a smile. Then she addressed the class, “Everybody – let’s give a warm welcome to new student Stiles…” Allison glanced at the paper Stiles had given her and Stiles could practically see her trying not to roll her eyes. “…Greenberg.”

Stiles couldn’t resist. He gave her one of his patented shit-eating grins and this time Allison did roll her eyes. Stiles was going to have to have a talk with her later about maintaining at least the illusion of professionalism. Then again, most of his teachers in high school had worn out their eyes by rolling them during the four years Stiles had been there. It was almost like coming home, he decided.

Allison turned back to the blackboard to continue her lesson and Stiles slipped into an empty seat in the middle row. He threw friendly smiles at the students around him, including a good-looking guy with amazing cheekbones Stiles immediately pegged as a douchebag (and not just because the guy rolled his eyes in disdain and offered an obvious fake smile in return) and a pretty blond girl who was not-so-subtly checking him out. 

Stiles got out a notebook to affect the image of a model student (yeah, who was he kidding, Allison knew first-hand what kind of student Stiles had been and efficient notetaker had not been it). He rummaged around in his backpack for a pen but he didn’t need to bother because one suddenly materialized before him. Pretty Blond Girl was leaning across the row, her hand out-stretched offering a sparkly purple pen, giving Stiles an eyeful of some nice creamy cleavage. “Hi,” she said breathlessly. “I’m Heather.” She gave Stiles a flirty wink. “You’re cute.” A low growl came from the coco-skinned girl sitting behind her. Stiles took the proffered pen, flashed a quick grin of thanks, then turned his full attention to his notebook. 

He pretended to take notes while stealthily making observations of his classmates. He’d need to put names to faces later (although Allison was doing a great job of making these connections for him by calling on students) but he could at least take note of any interesting interaction patterns or unusual behaviours displayed during the course of the lesson. These kinds of observations would be helpful in understanding who was who in the high school hierarchy as well as point to friend networks that might aid the investigation.

“…Mr. Greenberg?”

Stiles was pulled from his observations, suddenly aware that the kids around him were staring at him, Allison looking at him expectantly.

“We’re talking about world politics in the context of 9-11,” Allison clarified. “I realize that you’re new here, Stiles, but you were probably studying a similar curriculum at the last school you were at.” She batted her eyelashes and smiled sweetly. “Perhaps there is something you could add to the discussion?”

Stiles decided that his best friend’s wife was an evil, evil woman. He knew Allison had always had it in her but Stiles had been momentarily blinded to this fact by the bulging belly that gave the impression she had a gentle, maternal nature. He smiled back with an equal measure of sugary sweetness. Then, without missing a beat, he launched into a long explanation of some of the historical and political factors that had played a role in the terrorist attack in 2001. He had done an essay on this in his senior year history class, something Allison was very much aware of. 

“Thank you, Stiles, for your very _thorough_ and insightful input on the key factors,” Allison complimented fifteen minutes later. Douchebag with the cheekbones – Stiles had written ‘Jackson’ in his notes – gave a loud snort. Others, including Heather and a good-looking guy named Danny (Stiles had written down ‘friend to douchebag cheekbone guy’), looked impressed. Stiles beamed. 

The bell for next period rang and students began packing up and then filing out of the classroom. Stiles wanted to think he imagined it but he was pretty sure he had felt a hand move over his buttocks, squeezing lightly, as he exited the classroom. The wink and lecherous grin Heather shot him as she slipped a piece of paper with her phone number on it into the back pocket of his jeans suggested he probably hadn’t imagined it at all.

Stiles’ least favourite class in high school had been gym. Not because he wasn’t athletic or because he couldn’t perform well in sports or anything. That wasn’t it at all. No, it had been the arrogant, self-entitled pricks in his gym class who had persisted in making kids like Stiles, Scott and Greenberg feel absolutely shitty about themselves that had turned Stiles off from gym. Climb a rope in ten seconds? No problem. Climb a rope in ten seconds while your classmates shouted disparaging remarks about your manhood and very existence? Problem.

When Stiles had gone to high school, it was guys like Spencer Addison and Travis Eaton who had made gym class practically unbearable. Here, it was Jackson Whittemore (Stiles had so called the douchebag thing in history class that morning) and twins Ethan and Aidan. 

The verbal jabs and ‘friendly’ shoves started in the locker room as they got changed for gym. He was the new kid at school. Stiles totally got it. Some heckling and minor shoving were part of the initiation rite for newbies in many subcultures, including policing. But he could tell that the jabs and shoves were not just intended to initiate Stiles into the fold but were aimed at sending a definite message. Something along the lines of: _We’re the kings of this castle and you had better know and stay in your place._

Stiles was here to investigate not to dismantle the high school social order, so he would stay in his place so long as it fit his undercover role and facilitated his overall investigation. When he was in high school, his place in the social order in relation to guys like Spencer and Travis had been much the same. If Jackson and the twins were kings, then Stiles was a court jester. He may have been a highly trained cop now, but he could play this role with absolute perfection.

They assembled in the gymnasium where their teacher – Coach _Hale_ , Stiles remembered from the personnel files - was waiting for them, basketball and clipboard in hands.

Stiles’ first thought was how totally unfair it was. His gym teacher from high school had definitely not been even a fraction as hot as the man who was responsible for the athletic training of Lincoln High’s class of senior boys. Stiles took stock of the fitted sweatpants and snug t-shirt the man was wearing, the defined cheekbones, the well-groomed stubble, the perfect jawline, those sinful--

_Oh, holy god._

Hale, the gym teacher at Lincoln High, was Tall, Dark and Sex-on-a-motherfucking-stick from The Wolf Den.

Well, fuck.

Hale blew his whistle to gather everyone around. Stiles approached cautiously, trying to keep to the back, out of the gym teacher’s line of sight, fretting that his cover would be blown the minute Hale set eyes on him. The rest of the group seemed to know the drill, though, and dispersed as soon as Hale blew his whistle again, leaving Stiles front and center on display.

“You the new kid?” Hale asked, looking down at his clipboard. “Greenberg?” He glanced up and Stiles prepared himself for the shocking recognition he was sure would come.

It didn’t. There was a flicker in Hale’s hazel eyes (fuck, those eyes were gorgeous; Stiles hadn’t fully appreciated them before – not with so many other things that had demanded his attention and appreciation that night). It wasn’t a flicker that acknowledged him as a past hook-up, though, but simply a register of Stiles as the new kid – _Greenberg_ \- nothing more. Stiles was disappointed. Sure, he’d had a buzz cut then, the light from the club tended to distort, and it had been dark in the backseat of the Camaro, but he really thought he would have been more of a memorable fuck, dammit. 

“Yeah,” Stiles replied, telling himself it was a good thing Hale didn’t recognize him. 

Hale tossed the basketball at him. It hit Stiles smack in the chest.

Hale raised an eyebrow. “You’re really bad at this,” he remarked flatly.

“I know how to play lacrosse?” Stiles offered in defense. 

A second eyebrow joined the first one. Hale retrieved the basketball and handed it over to him. “Just follow along with what the rest are doing,” he told Stiles. He blew his whistle again, motioning at Jackson to help guide Stiles through the drills they were doing.

Great, thought Stiles. Just fucking great. He had to do drills in a sport he rarely had occasion to play under the guidance of Jackson-fucking-Whittemore, the douchebag king. Even worse, Stiles had failed to make an impression on the best hook-up of his life such that the man didn’t even remember him. 

Life sucked.

Apparently, the suckiness of his teenage-again life was just getting started. Somehow, in his second go around of high school, Stiles still managed to get a chemistry teacher who hated him.

And Stiles got a further surprise in the last period of the day when he went to Health class and found the gym teacher, Derek Hale (aka TDS), had exchanged his track pants and t-shirt for jeans and a Henley, both sinfully tight.  
He barely managed to resist the urge to bang his head repeatedly on the desk. Stiles congratulated himself for staying tough by cataloguing every one of Hale’s absolutely fucking perfect-beyond-imagination features.

“Being a teenager sucks,” Stiles groused over dinner. Scott laughed. “No, really. Give me a high-risk undercover assignment, like being a drug dealer or mob assassin, I don’t care. Just don’t make me go through high school again.”

“Come on, it can’t be that bad,” Scott said. 

“Trust me, Scotty boy,” Stiles replied. “It’s that bad. You remember when we were in high school? Same shit, different time, different school.”

“He’s not lying,” Allison piped up. “Things aren’t that much different at Lincoln High than when we were at Beacon Hills High School.” She spooned another helping of green bean casserole onto her plate. “I swear Jackson Whittemore must be related to Spencer Addison. They both have the same disdainful eyeroll.”

“I know, right?” Stiles said.

Allison gave him a wry look. “And Greenberg, Stiles? Really?”

Stiles shrugged then grinned. What? Greenberg was one of those kids who made an impression on people. 

“I wonder what Greenberg’s up to these days,” Scott mused, shovelling mashed potatoes into his mouth.

Allison smiled fondly at her husband then flashed Stiles a teasing grin. “So, Stiles,” she said, way too coyly for Stiles’ liking. “What do you think of the new gym teacher?”

Remember when he said Allison was an evil woman? 

Scott immediately perked up, looking between his wife and his best friend. 

“Um, he seems…qualified?” Stiles replied.

Allison laughed. “Qualified. Is that what you’re gonna go with?”

“Absolutely,” Stiles said, nodding vigorously.

“What? What?” Scott said, wanting in on the apparent inside joke.

Stiles waved a hand. “Dude, it’s nothing,” he said. “And FYI – your wife is evil. I no longer want to be her baby daddy.”

Scott’s eyebrows scrunched in confusion “Her baby dadd—wait. Is that why everyone in baby class is always giving me sad, pity looks?” Allison chuckled. Scott rolled his eyes and glare-frowned at Stiles which, coming from Scott, looked about as threatening as a cute puppy. 

On the plus side, Scott forgot all about the ‘gym teacher’ Allison had mentioned. Hey, Stiles was a _master_ of deflection.

Stiles decided that the English teacher, Ms. Blake, was a little strange and a smidge creepy, especially when the students in her class – with the exception of Stiles whose information was only recently put on file - received a mass text to their cell phones quoting a passage from _Brave New World_. Really, such a violation of privacy – even if for legitimate educational purposes - had ‘creeper’ written all over it.

And the music teacher, Deucalion? (What kind of pretentious name was that anyway? Stiles thought. He was familiar with Greek mythology but so far he couldn’t see any similarities between this man and the supposed son of Prometheus, although Stiles had noticed the teacher kept an ornate wooden box on a desk in the music room that begged further investigation.) Although the man was ostensibly blind, there were times when Stiles felt sure Deucalion could ‘see’. He was kind of eccentric and very critical of the students under his instruction, openly criticizing talented (in Stiles’ opinion) student musicians in the class. From one to ten on the Creepy Scale, Stiles put Deucalion at about an eight. He was just waiting for the music teacher to declare himself some kind of god before bumping him up to a solid ten. 

The new janitor also scored high on the Creepy Scale. He certainly wasn’t very efficient, Stiles assessed. During Stiles’ lunch period, the sanitation engineer spent most of his time ‘lurking’ outside the cafeteria, not even bothering to use the mop he had in his hand. (Boyd, by contrast, was a first-rate janitor. He’d even cleaned up the puke in the boys’ bathroom the day before. But then Boyd always did put his best effort into every undercover role.) Stiles decided that ‘Hank’ was at the very least a sketchy pervert if not the killer they were on the lookout for.

It was right after lunch on his third day as a high school student when Stiles went to collect his books for Chemistry that the twins decided to take the opportunity to send a message. One of them – Stiles was pretty sure it was Aidan – came up behind him, put a hand to the back of his head, and slammed his face into the locker. Stiles fought the instinct to sweep his leg back and knock his attacker off-balance, following up with an easy take down. He was supposed to be an average seventeen-year-old kid, not a special-ops cop, which meant he had to keep his particular skill set under the radar as much as possible - even if it meant having to suffer the humiliation of a face plant into metal.

Still, it hurt like a fucking bitch.

“Heyyy Aidan, or Ethan, or which ever one you are,” Stiles said in his best impersonation of Greenberg (yeah, Greenberg was the kid who got bullied when Stiles had gone to high school). He dabbed fingertips to his nose, which was bleeding. Great. Just fucking great.

Aidan or Ethan – Stiles was just going to refer to this twin as the “Evil Twin” – curled his lips into a snarling sneer (man, Stiles loved words that started with ‘sn’). He opened his mouth to say something – probably something obnoxiously clichéd too – but was interrupted by a shout coming from down the hall.

“Hey Double Douchebags! Let go of the new kid!”

Stiles turned his attention to the newcomer – a pretty but takes-no-bullshit girl with long brown hair – who was striding down the hallway with serious gonna-kick-some-ass purpose. Stiles mentally thought: Cora, who was in three or four of his classes.

“Come on, Cora,” Evil Twin said. “We’re just having a bit of fun with uh—what’s your name again?” he asked Stiles.

“Greenberg,” Stiles responded amicably.

“Right. Greenberg.”

Cora narrowed her hazel eyes at him. “Let. Him. Go.”

Stiles was impressed – and a little bit frightened. This girl definitely had an Erica Reyes vibe about her. 

Evil Twin backed away from Stiles, holding his palms up and out in a gesture of surrender. He gave Stiles one last obnoxious smirk then nodded at his brother. The Bully Twins moved on down the hallway.

Cora didn’t take her eyes off them until they rounded the corner out of view. She gave Stiles a quick assessing once-over, her gaze zeroing in on his nose. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Stiles told her, wiping the back of his hand under his nose. It was nothing, really. He’d had worse injuries than a bloody nose by far. “Uh, thanks?”

“Sure,” the girl responded. 

Stiles closed his locker and started down the hallway. He didn’t want to be late. He had learned the first day that his chemistry teacher was a hard-ass when it came to tardiness. Cora, who had Chemistry with Stiles, fell into step with him. 

“I’m Cora, by the way,” she said as they made their way to class. “Cora Hale.”

Stiles heard the note of resignation in her voice and the almost imperceptible sigh that accompanied the disclosure of her surname.

“Hale,” Stiles mused out loud. “As in Coach Hale?” Because, really, what were the odds?

Cora’s sigh was loud this time as she rolled her eyes. “He’s my brother.”

Yep. There was definitely resignation mixed with a little resentment there. Interesting.

“You don’t sound too happy about that,” he commented.

Cora shrugged, pausing at the door of the classroom. Stiles didn’t quite know what to make of Cora’s attitude toward her brother but he filed it away for further thought. He gave Cora a patented Stilinski grin. 

“And it’s Stiles, by the way,” he said. “Stiles Greenberg. Not New Kid.”

Cora cocked an eyebrow then gave a small, amused smile. She lifted a finger to her nose. “You still got a little…” she said then continued into the room.

Stiles swiped his thumb over both nostrils and smiled to himself. Cora Hale seemed as interesting (and as oddly communicative) as her brother. He wondered if Cora had come to Lincoln High at the same time as Derek and made a mental note to ask Reyes to look up the girl’s school record. 

“Mr. Greenberg!” Harris boomed from inside the classroom. “Are you going to join us or do you intend to remain standing there, looking pretty?”

Stiles ignored the snickers that came from his classmates – he _was_ pretty, dammit – as he moved to take up a stool next to Cora. He winked at her then flashed Harris a bright smile (his dad called it his up-to-no-good smile, which was a pretty accurate descriptor, in Stiles’ opinion). Not only was Stiles pretty but his best subject in high school just so happened to have been Chemistry. 

Stiles had this. He totally had this.

It turned out Harris didn’t like to be corrected by his students, even if the man _had_ transposed a digit in an equation that might have resulted in an adverse chemical reaction had they actually been doing a hands-on experiment. Luckily for the students in the class, but unlucky for Stiles, Harris’ lesson was simply theoretical and Stiles found himself with detention at the end of the day.

He wasn’t alone, however. Two other students – Matt Daehler and Jared Something – were also doing detention under Harris. Stiles figured he would seize the opportunity and try to feel out Matt and Jared as potential suspects while trying not to piss Harris off any further. 

He managed to discover that Matt was a budding photographer who took pictures for the school’s yearbook. Stiles wasn’t going to lie, the vibe he got from Matt was “total creepy stalker dude” so he made a mental note to do a thorough background check on the guy. Jared was the geeky loner type – a gamer and computer whiz who probably spent countless hours holed up in his room or basement battling mythical creatures in an online gaming community while hacking into government sites for kicks. He reminded Stiles of Greenberg. Jared appeared harmless but so did many of the prolific serial killers throughout history so Stiles wasn’t about to rule him out just yet. 

Stiles also thought that Harris warranted further investigation. The man was shifty on top of being a first-class asshole. He peered at Stiles with the most underserved and judgiest of judgments and Stiles had seen the way Harris surreptitiously leered at the girls in his class. 

Harris, Daehler and Jared were definitely all creepers in their own way. But did one of them strangle and mutilate two teenaged girls?

Well, that was what Stiles and his team were here to find out, wasn’t it?

Cora Hale may have been a little intense, but Lydia Martin was a whole other kind of frightening.

The strawberry-blonde queen of the school accosted him at lunch in the cafeteria. “So, New Kid,” she greeted, her green eyes sizing him up. Stiles could tell he was found lacking. 

Cora, who was sitting with Stiles for lunch (it had become their routine and Stiles wasn’t going to lie – he really kind of liked it), rolled her eyes. “His name is _Stiles_ ,” she corrected with exasperation. 

“Is it?” Lydia said, uncaring. Stiles tried not to be too offended by this. “Anyway,” she continued, ignoring Cora, flicking her gaze back to Stiles. “My boyfriend says you stink at basketball. But he thinks you might not suck at math and chemistry.”

Stiles knew who Lydia’s ‘boyfriend’ was. Everybody in the school did. It was none other than Jackson Whittemore. Stiles was surprised that Jackson had acknowledged that Stiles might actually have _skills_ – even if they were related to numbers, something Jackson would clearly not count as important. 

“The Spark Club meets in the library Wednesdays after school,” Lydia said. She pointed a red-lacquered nail at Stiles. “Be there.” She then turned on the heels of her red Raphael Youngs (thank you, Reyes) and made her way across the cafeteria to join Jackson, Danny and the twins at another table.

“What’s the Spark Club?” Stiles asked Cora.

“Basically a nerd gathering,” Cora told him.

“Ah,” said Stiles. “So I should fit right in then.”

Cora’s lips tilted up into a smirk. “Yeah.”

The Spark Club had a small membership that consisted of Lydia, who was the club’s president (no surprise there) and about a half dozen other students, including a few Stiles was already acquainted with like Danny, Jared and Danielle (who eyed Stiles suspiciously, what was up with that, seriously?). As far as Stiles could understand, the ‘Sparks’ were basically Lincoln High’s version of ‘mathletes’. He didn’t have a problem with this. Stiles had been a mathlete when he was in high school as well as a regular athlete (well, a quasi-athlete, he hadn’t really tapped into his full potential as a teenager) who played second line on the lacrosse team. What could he say? He had been a sort of-jock with brains, if a tad socially awkward (and by “a tad”, Stiles meant “kind of a lot”, okay?).

For a full hour, the Sparks worked through practice problems, trying to solve each problem in the shortest amount of time. Lydia was first to finish every time while Stiles was pretty much last. What? He was a little rusty. He’d been solving crimes for the past five years not math problems. Danielle and Jared gave him judgemental looks but Danny seemed encouraging at least. The guy may have been friends with Jackson, Ethan and Aidan but Danny didn’t seem to be a jerk like them. Plus he had incredible dimples. Yeah. Stiles liked Danny. He couldn’t cross the kid off the list of suspects just yet but Stiles was pretty sure Dimpled Danny was not a killer. Unfortunately, he couldn’t say the same for the rest of the Spark group.

Week Two of High School Hell went a bit more smoothly. Stiles had grown somewhat accustomed to being seventeen again (it helped that he griped about it to Scott every night and went to the shooting range whenever he could to vent his ‘teenage’ frustrations) and he had been able to map out the senior social hierarchy to a reasonable degree, which was helping him to fit in at least.

Stiles hung out with Cora mostly, who reminded him of Scott. Well, except Cora was a girl, had a dry but witty sense of humour, and was way less gullible than Stiles’ best friend. Okay, so maybe she was more like _Stiles_ than Scott, although she was definitely not much of a talker. In that respect, she was a lot like her brother, the gym teacher – the strong, silent type. It seemed to work for them.

Stiles had found out from Reyes that Cora Hale had been at Lincoln High since freshman year (so it was only Derek Hale that was new to the school), which meant that Cora was a good source to subtly probe concerning her impressions of various students and teachers. Jackson? (“pretentious douchebag”) The Twins? (“Aidan, douchebag; Ethan, slightly less of a douchebag”) Matt? (“creepy douchebag”) Jared? (“nerd douchebag”) Danny? (“not a douchebag”) Lydia? (“she dates Jackson, what do you think?”) Heather? (“she’s hot for you”) Blake? (“strange”) Deucalion? (“uh…he’s blind?) Harris? (“hard-ass”) McCall? (“she’s nice”) Coach Hale?

Cora narrowed her eyes at Stiles. Hey, it was worth a shot, okay?

“Make sure you pinch the tip _then_ roll it down…”

In one swift, practiced movement, Stiles rolled the latex condom down over the banana. What? He was a pro at this. Stiles could roll a condom on a banana (or erect penis) in his sleep (or, well, at least in the pitch black darkness of an alleyway or backseat). He glanced up and saw that Hale was staring at him, his eyebrows raised, his mouth gaping a little. Stiles did not find this arousing whatsoever. No siree. 

Stiles really couldn’t help it. He smirked. He might have also winked.

Cora snorted beside him. “Impressive,” she said. She gave her own banana and the condom in her hand a wary look. Stiles smiled then helpfully guided Cora’s hands to roll the condom down over the banana successfully and smoothly.

Hale cast a glare in his direction.

Okay, so maybe helping Hale’s younger sister put a condom on a banana wasn’t the best way to win the man’s affections. (He imagined it must be awkward as hell for _Cora_ having her older brother give _sex education_ even if Stiles thought Derek Hale giving instruction on how to put on a condom properly was hot like burning.)

It seemed Cora and her brother weren’t the only ones impressed with Stiles’ condom-fu skills. Heather batted her eyelashes at him, looking starry-eyed and besotted, Paige from music gave him a thumbs up, and Danny stared with dimpled awe, his cheeks flushed a rosy pink. Even Lydia Martin raised an impressed eyebrow for a fraction of a second. Jackson, who was apparently not easily impressed, glared at Stiles and muttered “jerk” under his breath. 

Stiles kept his hands clenched in fists to prevent himself from giving the guy the finger and instead flashed him an obnoxious grin.

He heard Hale clear his throat. “Since Mr. Greenberg seems to have his, uh, technique perfected,” Hale said, and Stiles did not miss the slight flush on the teacher’s cheekbones as he flicked a glance toward him, “perhaps he’d be willing to help those of you having trouble?”

Five arms immediately shot up, apparently desiring Stiles’ assistance in learning how to properly roll on a condom. 

Stiles was happy to help them all but there was one classmate he figured he’d start with, even if the guy hadn’t raised his hand and clearly did not want Stiles’ help. Because if there was anybody who really needed to learn how to properly roll on a condom to prevent the reproduction of his douchebag genes, it was Jackson Whittemore.

Stiles grabbed his books for next class and slammed the metal door of his locker shut. He was momentarily startled to find Heather leaning against the locker beside his, twirling her blonde hair with a finger and looking dreamy. Her friend Danielle hovered in the background. Or maybe Danielle was Heather’s bodyguard. Either way, the Death Glare she was giving Stiles made him feel decidedly uncomfortable. Stiles suddenly missed his gun.

“Heey, Heather,” Stiles greeted, keeping a wary eye on the girl glaring at him.

Heather leaned into his personal space. “You’re cute,” she said softly into his ear, causing goose bumps to rise on his skin. She traced a finger along Stiles’ bottom lip. “Maybe you could come to my place after school and show me how to properly put on a condom so I’ll be sure to get an A in health class?”

Stiles gulped. 

Oh boy.

He steadfastly reminded himself that he was only pretending to be a seventeen year old high school student and that he was actually a twenty-five (almost twenty-six!) year old police officer who would get into a whole lot of trouble if he indulged in what sweet underage little Heather seemed to be offering here. 

The bell for next class sounded. Stiles whooshed out a sigh of relief, muttered a quick “gotta go” and hurried down the hallway to his next class.

He was not a coward, okay? Stiles was simply making a strategic retreat. It was a perfectly legitimate action given the circumstances and everyone (especially Scott) could just shut the hell up about it.

Deucalion was rubbing his temples and rolling his eyes. Well, Stiles couldn’t actually tell if he was rolling his eyes – the music teacher wore dark glasses – but he was reasonably sure eye rolling was happening, even if it is was metaphorical.

“You are _certain_ you cannot play another instrument?” Deucalion asked for the second time. “The _flute_ , perhaps?”

“Nope,” Stiles replied, twirling a stick between thumb and fingers. “Just the drums.”

Danny hid an amused smile behind his trumpet. A snicker came from Paige behind her cello. Deucalion heaved a sigh and rubbed his temples some more.

Stiles grinned. He was telling a bit of a fib, actually. He could also play the guitar but he liked playing the drums the best. Plus, he got a kick out of watching the vein pulse in Deucalion’s forehead.

“Very well,” the music teacher said, sighing again heavily. “Let’s take it from the top,” he told the class, then inclined his head in Stiles’ direction. “Perhaps Mr. Greenberg will count us in.”

Stiles tapped out the count on the drums.

The team was sitting around the table in The Locker Room, comparing notes and impressions of faculty and staff, trying to narrow down the list of possible suspects.

“Harris?” Reyes asked.

“Creepy,” came Stiles’ response.

“Blake?”

“Creepy.”

“Deucalion?”

“Creepy.”

“Hale?”

Stiles said nothing. Boyd, Lahey and Reyes stared at him. “What?” Stiles said. “He’s not creepy.”

Boyd rolled his eyes and Lahey snorted. Reyes gave Stiles a knowing smirk then returned to the list. “What about the new janitor…” she scanned the page “…Hank?”

“Norman Bates’ creepy,” Stiles effused. Boyd gave a nod in agreement.

“Okay, so most of the new teachers, except for maybe the gym teacher Stilinski has the hots for--”

“Hey!” Stiles protested for the sake of his dignity. 

“—and the new janitor guy are creepy,” Reyes finished. “This really doesn’t do much to narrow our list of suspects down.”

Stiles, Boyd and Lahey hummed in response. Reyes had a point. 

“What about students?” she asked. “Any we should add to the Creeper list?”

“Matt Daehler, Jared Something-or-another-I-forgot-his-last-name-it-should-be-in-the-files,” Stiles replied, “The twin called Aidan - at least I think it’s Aidan and not Ethan – but they look exactly fucking alike so who the fuck knows, and…” Stiles took a breath, “…Danielle Rhodes.”

Three sets of eyebrows rose. 

“What?” Stiles said, blowing out a breath. “The girl hates me,” he groused. “Okay, so it may not be _creepy_ but there’s got to be something up with that, right? Everybody likes me.”

“No they don’t.”

Stiles gave the usually minimally-verbal Boyd a look. “Hurtful, dude.”

Boyd grinned. 

Stiles added Boyd to his mental list of _Evil Friends I Have_. Then, he wadded up a piece of paper and threw it at his team member for good measure.

He wasn’t even supposed to play, which had suited Stiles just fine, thank you. He had very much been looking forward to ogling Hale’s fine sweatpants-clad ass from the vantage point of the bench while the rest of his teammates dribbled and sweat their way to victory. But then Danny pulled a hamstring and the knee of one of the other guys was acting up, and Stiles somehow ended up being rotated into the game.

Which kinda sucked, quite frankly, because basketball really wasn’t his thing. Sure, Stiles knew the rules and he was a fair player and all. That wasn’t the problem. It was just that he didn’t particularly _like_ basketball. He would much rather play lacrosse or hockey or, better yet, ogle tight buns – legal ones, of course – from the sidelines. Yeah, ass-ogling should definitely be a sport, he thought.

So this was how he found himself on the court alongside the twins, Jackson and Ennis, who was a real brute of a guy and a tough player. Stiles figured he’d do what he could to help his teammates, but it became apparent as soon as he hit the court that Aidan wasn’t going to play ball – pun intended. Twice, Stiles was open and in a prime position to shoot a basket but Aidan refused to pass him the ball. Instead, the jerk took the shot from outside the three-point line, both times the basketball ricocheting off the rim and into the hands of an opposing team member.

“Pass the ball, asshole,” Stiles hissed as he jogged past the twin. Aidan smirked at him.

Coach Hale apparently had enough the fourth time Aidan refused to pass the ball to Stiles, who was yet again open. He called for a substitution, sending Danny back in, and benched Aidan. Aidan immediately started grumbling but Hale held firm, crossing his arms against his chest, ignoring the guy. 

With Aidan no longer hindering the play – and even with Danny somewhat handicapped – they were able to catch up to the opposing team then overtake them in the final quarter to win the game. 

“Good game,” Hale told them, giving them a pleased nod. He caught Stiles’ eye. “Not bad, Greenberg.”

Stiles’ heart may have fluttered. He made sure to give Aidan an obnoxious smirk before trotting off to the locker room.

He’d started to pull his jersey up and off when hands gripped his shoulders, forcing him around, and Stiles was slammed up against the cold metal of the lockers. Aidan pressed in close, eyes steely, nostrils flaring. 

“You got me benched,” the twin groused crossly.

“Oh you did that all on your own, buddy,” Stiles replied, unperturbed. He’d taken down perps far more threatening than this kid. 

Aidan’s eyes narrowed. He shoved Stiles’ shoulders further into the lockers. “You think you’re smart?”

Stiles was about to make a witty comeback that demonstrated how very smart he was when Danny intervened. “Leave him alone, Aidan,” said the dimpled cutie. “It’s your own fault you got benched. You should have passed the ball.”

Aidan held Stiles against the lockers for a half a minute longer then let him go. He stalked to the showers, muttering foul under his breath. Stiles watched him go. He wondered if Aidan’s anger issues extended to killing teenage girls. Though to be fair, the only person the twin seemed to have a problem with was Stiles. Aidan might have been a bully and a jackass, but Stiles doubted he was a killer. 

Which begged the question: Who was?

Stiles wasn’t even sorry when he started the argument with Harris this time. Actually, he hadn’t been sorry the first time but at least it had been unintentional then. Today, he just really needed to get away from the man. There was only so much condescending sneering Stiles could take, especially since this was his second go at chemistry and he’d gotten ( _fuck you, Harris_ ) a well-deserved A his first go. Plus, he was missing Reyes a little bit and a trip to the principal’s office gave him the opportunity to say hello.

He gave Reyes the green slip that indicated he was to see/have a conversation with/get a scolding from the principal in lieu of detention with Harris.

“Been naughty, have we, Greenberg?” Reyes said with a smirk, her brown eyes twinkling.

Stiles had every intention of giving a snotty reply back but he became distracted by the low-cut V of Reyes’ tight red sweater. He stared. 

Reyes’ smirk grew bigger.

It was no wonder the boys – freshmen through seniors – were coming by the office more often lately. Those boobs were something to behold.

Reyes snorted. “Stop drooling.”

“’m not,” Stiles scoffed. He’d seen Reyes’ boobs enough times that he was past drooling. He might have been gaping a little, though, but hey. Those mounds were impressive.

His conversation with Principal Chalmers lasted a full fifteen minutes, at the end of which Stiles promised to be more respectful toward the chemistry teacher by not pointing out his mistakes or arguing over the accuracy of equations. (Anyway, he had his fingers crossed behind his back so it didn’t really count, right? Man, he’d crossed his fingers _a lot_ during the past five years of undercover work.)

Reyes was still smirking when he came out of the office now officially ‘chastised’. Not for the first time, he wondered how Reyes lucked out getting the office job in this gig. Stiles figured it had something to do with Reyes’ ability to insert herself into the gossip mill (she already knew who liked who, who wanted to bang who, and who wanted to break up with who), which was totally unfair and a tad sexist, frankly. Stiles could play gossip girl just as easily. Hell, he could have mopped floors (though, granted, not as efficiently as Boyd). Instead, he was being harassed by chemistry teachers, bullied by jocks, leered at by teenage girls and forgotten by hot hook-ups. 

And, even more depressing, they still weren’t any closer to catching the killer. On the bright side, there hadn’t been another murder since Stiles became seventeen again, so that was something. Still, the sooner they caught the person who had murdered those two girls, the sooner he could ditch the Greenberg persona (no offence to the kid he had gone to high school with) and go back to being Stiles Stilinksi again. 

The bell for next period rang. Stiles gave a half-smile. Health class was up next. Maybe Hale would be talking about actual sex today, he thought with mischievous glee. The thought had him humming all the way to class.

Stiles had offered to drive Cora home after school. Not only was he a nice guy like that, but he figured he could take the opportunity to maybe find out a little more about Cora’s brother. (What? It was a legitimate investigative technique. Derek Hale may not have been classically creepy, but he was still technically a suspect and it was Stiles’ job – and the rest of the team’s - to find out all he could about him.) He pulled into the driveway of the Hale house, a nice two-storey bungalow located in a nice, suburban neighbourhood. He barely had the Jeep in park when Cora leaned over the console and pressed her soft lips to his rough, dry ones.

Stiles may have let out a surprised squeak. What? He really hadn’t seen this coming and had been caught off-guard, okay? He wasn’t used to so much attention, especially _female_ attention and certainly not from seventeen year old girls. Excuse him for taking more than a second to catch up to these things. 

Cora pulled back, a blush sweeping over her cheeks. She narrowed her eyes and seemed to assess him for a moment then she breathed out a frustrated sigh.

“You’re afraid of my brother, aren’t you?” she said. 

Huh. Not at all what Stiles had been expecting her to say.

“What? No. Absolutely not,” Stiles told her. “Zero fear of big brother here.” Yeah. It was definitely not fear Stiles was feeling toward Derek Hale. 

Cora crossed her arms against her chest and cocked a judgemental eyebrow at him. 

“Okay. You’re…It’s not…Your brother…” Stiles began, his head running through a thousand different things he should probably say to this sweet, cute but very off-limits girl. “I’m gay,” he finally just blurted out.

Cora lifted an eyebrow. And, really, what the hell was with these Hales and their eyebrows?

“Well, mostly anyway,” Stiles clarified. 

“My brother is gay,” Cora said flatly.

Yeah. Stiles wouldn’t have guessed that, except that he remembered very distinctly having Derek Hale’s cock shoved up inside of him, fucking him senseless in the backseat of a car parked outside a known _gay_ club. He figured that was sort of a clincher.

But what he said was, “Oh?” Because he really didn’t know where Cora was going with this.

Cora shrugged and shifted a little in the seat. “Yeah. In case you need someone to…talk to,” she said. “If you’re having, like, a sexual identity crisis or…” she waved a hand around, “…whatever.”

“What?” Stiles said, momentarily confused. “No. No, it’s nothing like that. There’s no crisis,” he insisted. “I’m definitely 95 percent gay.”

Cora’s eyebrow lifted higher.

Okay, so that maybe wasn’t the best way to imply that he was bisexual but leaned mostly toward guys rather than girls, Stiles thought. The thing was he could appreciate a woman’s beauty, especially a long pair of legs and a firm set of boobs (Reyes’ included). It was just that Stiles tended to appreciate a broad set of shoulders, well-defined abs and a stiff cock considerably _more_. It was complicated, he supposed. 

Huh. Maybe he _could_ use to talk to their gym/health teacher about this.

He forced the thought aside and concentrated on the girl sitting in the passenger seat. Stiles liked Cora. She was rough and tough and just the right amount of sarcastic. If Stiles was actually a teenage boy, he probably would have fallen a bit in love with her or, at the least, they would have become the very best of friends. He sighed. This was the part of the job Stiles hated. He had to get close to people and, in doing so, he tended to end up _liking_ them. 

He opened his mouth to say – well, Stiles really didn’t know what he was going to say - but Cora was already shrugging him off. 

“No biggie,” she said, opening the door and climbing out of the Jeep. She gave him a half-smile. “Thanks for the ride.”

Stiles watched as Cora traipsed up to the house and let herself inside, mentally banging his head on the steering wheel. (Okay, so maybe it wasn’t completely mental.)

Being a teenager definitely sucked, he decided.

Danielle looked down at the paper where Stiles had summed up his impression of _Brave New World_ in one simple sentence and gave him a dry look.

“What?” Stiles said. “Huxley was clearly a pervert. The book is all about sex. Even children are presented as sexed up. I mean, hunt-the-zipper? Come on. That totally says closet pedophile, if you ask me.”

“We’re _supposed_ to be discussing the theme of _state control_ presented in the book,” Danielle told him sternly. 

Man, this girl took the fun out of everything. 

Ms. Blake had divided the class into pairs to discuss the theme of state control in the novel they were currently reading. Their English teacher obviously had it in for Stiles because she had paired him with Danielle, who didn’t even hide the fact that she disliked him. A lot. Or so that was Stiles’ reading of the perpetual sour look on the girl’s face. Stiles really didn’t get it. He was a _likeable_ guy, dammit. 

Of course, Blake chose to call on the pair of them first. “Stiles and Danielle? Would you share your thoughts with the class?”

“Well,” Danielle said, giving Ms. Blake a sweet smile while tossing Stiles a dark look. “ _He_ ,” she jerked a thumb at Stiles, “thinks Huxley is a pervert. _I_ think the author is trying to convey the increasing state intervention in our lives through various technologies and the rise of the consumer society.” 

“Thank you for that insight, Danielle,” said Ms. Blake. Danielle hmphed and shot Stiles a smug grin. Ms. Blake smiled. “And seeing as Mr. Greenberg has picked up on the theme of sexuality in Huxley’s novel,” there were a few snickers, “this can be your homework for tonight.” There were groans now. “Write a five-page essay on the ways sexuality is presented in _Brave New World_.” More groans. “Maybe Stiles is right,” she said, her eyes lighting up with amusement. “Maybe Aldous Huxley was a pervert.”

Later, Lahey complained to Reyes and Boyd that because of Stiles he was now going to have to help Jennifer Blake grade thirty five-page essays. And, really, thought Stiles, wasn’t that his job? He was a teacher’s aid. They helped teachers grade stuff. Lahey wasn’t the one who would have to forgo the shooting range tonight so he could write that five-page essay. No, that was Stiles. Because _Stiles_ was the student in this undercover gig, not Lahey or Boyd or Reyes.

Next time he was going to insist on getting to be the office girl. He’d even wear a low-cut V-neck sweater.

He had just come out of the boys’ bathroom (sometimes Stiles had to get away from all the teenage chatter and ‘smells’ and the bathrooms in the east wing of the school were rarely used) when he noticed the new janitor lurking at the end of the hallway, not doing any mopping (as usual), instead talking to a student. And not just any student, Stiles noted.

_Cora Hale._

Although Stiles couldn’t hear what they were saying, the conversation appeared to be somewhat animated – at least as animated as minimal hand gestures and eyebrow raises implied. Stiles wondered what Cora could possibly have to talk animatedly about with the creepy janitor. He supposed it was possible she was taking him to task for not carrying out his sanitation duties as efficiently as he should but Cora’s expression looked more annoyed than scolding. It seemed more likely, Stiles thought, that the janitor had said or done something inappropriate, which had irritated the girl.

Stiles moved down the hallway toward them. 

“Everything okay?” he asked Cora when he approached the pair.

Cora’s face flashed with surprise. She likely hadn’t expected to see him. The east wing had few classrooms and students (except those wanting to get away) didn’t tend to venture much to that part of the school. “Yeah,” she said, flicking a quick glance at the janitor, who looked oddly amused. “Everything’s good.” 

“I’ll see about getting that faucet fixed in the girls’ washroom,” the janitor said to Cora. He nodded at Stiles then started to move down the hall, making a show of pushing his mop along. Yeah. Like that was going to convince Stiles this guy was efficient at his job and not creepy as fuck. 

Stiles gave Cora a look. “What was that all about?”

“The faucet in the girls’ bathroom is leaking,” Cora replied.

“And you told _him_?” Stiles said. Boyd would have been the much better choice. “You know he’s a lousy janitor, right?” 

Cora outright _snickered_. 

Stiles definitely felt like he was missing the joke.

Stiles was feeling pretty good. They had just won a game against a long-standing rival school and Stiles had contributed to the victory by scoring three baskets, one of which had been a three-pointer. His teammates, with the exception of Aidan of course, had seemed pleased with his efforts. Danny, Tony and Ennis had given him high-fives. Jackson hadn’t scowled or sneered. Coach Hale had given him another thumbs-up (in Stiles fantasies, it would have been a sporty tap to the butt but, hey, he’d take what he could get).

He was in the parking lot, unlocking his Jeep, when someone grabbed him from behind.

It was Aidan. Ethan was right on his brother’s heels, looking wary.

“I don’t like you,” Aidan stated, his tone full of menace. 

“Yeah? Well, boo-hoo,” Stiles replied with characteristic sarcasm. Really, the kid’s attitude was starting to get on his nerves. 

Aidan’s face grew red with anger. He was clearly having a hissy-fit of some sort - over what Stiles had no fucking clue. They had won the game. Aidan had played well, even if he hadn’t been overly generous with passing the ball to Stiles. He grabbed a hold of Stiles’ hoodie with his left hand and pulled his arm back to deliver a punch with his right. _Enough was enough_ , Stiles thought, as he quickly telegraphed and deftly evaded the blow. He stomped hard on Aidan’s foot, swivelled his hips and delivered a well-aimed side kick to the twin’s torso. The force knocked Aidan off his feet and he landed on the pavement, a string of curse words spewing from his mouth.

Ethan gaped at Stiles. Stiles lifted his hands up, beckoning with his fingers. “You want some too?” he taunted. Ethan wisely shook his head, moving to his brother’s aid instead. 

Somebody let out a whistle and Stiles was suddenly aware that a small crowd had gathered. 

“Didn’t know you had it in you, Greenberg,” Jackson said appreciatively. Danny stood beside him, shaking his head in disbelief.

Cora was smirking, her look almost proud. Heather had a hand to her bosom and hearts in her eyes. Danielle crossed her arms against her chest and frowned at Stiles. Really, was there no pleasing that girl?

“Break it up,” a voice commanded. 

Coach Hale pushed his way through the stunned students. He looked at Aidan on the pavement, brushing off Ethan’s offer of help, then levelled a gaze at Stiles. He raised his eyebrows like he was maybe impressed just a little bit. 

Stiles allowed himself ten seconds to bask in the glory of Hale’s not-quite-but-pretty-darn-close compliment. Okay, so Stiles wasn’t the average teenager everyone thought he was but really a cop who was specially trained in tactical fighting and had a black belt in three forms of martial arts, which meant that the playing field wasn’t exactly fair here. But Aidan was a douchebag who preyed on vulnerable kids and he deserved an ass-kicking. Not that Stiles had exactly delivered an ass-kicking or anything. He had simply defended himself. 

Hale jerked a thumb at Aidan. “Let’s have a chat inside,” he told the twin then addressed the rest of the crowd, “Everyone else, get moving.” He gave Stiles a look. “Including Mr. Greenberg.”

Okay, so apparently Stiles was off the hook for his awesome defensive takedown of the douchebag twin. Sweet. He quickly unlocked his Jeep and jumped into the driver’s seat. He wasn’t going to hang around and risk having Hale change his mind. 

Stiles pumped his fist in victory when he beat Jackson to the exit and gave his dash a fond pat. His old Jeep was a little beat-up and rusty but Stiles would pit it against a pretentious Porsche (especially one driven by Jackson Whittemore) any day.

As he pulled out of the parking lot, he caught sight of Ms. Blake standing outside the west entrance, her gaze fixed on Stiles as he drove away.

She was definitely a strange one, Stiles thought. He gave a shudder then proceeded on his way.

Deucalion wouldn’t let Stiles play the drums for the memorial concert the class had been practicing the last few weeks for, which suited Stiles perfectly fine. He had to buy a ticket to the concert but, on the plus side, he got to sit with Cora _and_ he had a prime vantage point from which to keep an eye on things during the concert. It was said that serial killers (if that was indeed what they were dealing with) often attended the funerals or memorials of their victims, so Coach had instructed the team to be on the lookout at the concert being held in memory of the two slain Lincoln High School students.

It was an emotional affair from the get-go. Tears were shed by friends and family of the murdered girls even before the concert started and everyone – students, teachers, staff, parents and the like – seemed to be on pins and needles. 

Stiles and Cora sat in the middle of the auditorium. From his spot, Stiles could see all of the key ‘players’ in their investigation. There was Deucalion, of course, conducting the music students in the orchestra. Harris and Blake were seated in the front row with the other teachers, including Allison. The only exception was Hale, who was leaning against the wall closest to the side entrance. Interesting, Stiles thought. (He absolutely did not give a thought to how attractive the gym teacher looked in a black leather jacket over top a black button down shirt and dress pants.) 

Matt Daehler was walking around the auditorium, presumably taking pictures. As the organizer of the event, Lydia Martin was pointing her finger and ordering people (like Jackson and Aidan) to do her bidding. Heather and Danielle were seated two rows in front of Stiles, Heather turning in her seat to give Stiles a flirty smile and wink, which caused Cora to snort loudly beside him. Jared sat at the end of their row, tapping on his ever-present tablet, probably solving math problems as he waited. At the foot of the stage Ethan straightened Danny’s tie and gave him an encouraging smile before the dimpled cutie took up his position on stage with his trumpet. (Huh. So Stiles had pegged that budding relationship right.) Paige was already on stage, getting into position with her cello.

Boyd, Reyes and Lahey were positioned strategically around the auditorium to provide each of them a vantage point that would not be construed as out of place. Hank the janitor was lurking at the back. Boyd gave a subtle nod from his spot to indicate that he was keeping an eye on him.

Principal Chalmers gave a brief speech at the beginning then turned the spotlight over to Deucalion and the school orchestra. 

It was about five minutes into the Fourth Movement of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 3 (what? Stiles knew classical music) when the auditorium suddenly went black. Screams and pandemonium erupted from all around as panic quickly set in. Stiles was up and out of his seat, darting his gaze around, trying to force his vision to adjust to the dark amidst the glowing cell phone screens that began to light up. He saw a flash of light toward the side entrance, a figure moving in the darkness. As his eyes slowly adjusted, he saw Hale moving quickly in that direction. 

Stiles reached out and put a hand on Cora’s arm. “Stay put,” he commanded loudly over the din. “And don’t panic.” Then he pushed his way past the people in his row and made for the side entrance, using his own cell phone to light a path, feeling his way in the darkness. Boyd, Reyes and Lahey, he knew, would move to contain the areas immediately surrounding them and would attempt to stave off panic. 

He pushed open the door of the side entrance and found that it led to the athletic field, which was almost as comparably dark as the auditorium was at the moment, lit up only by a pair of dim field lights. Stiles could see Hale standing on the edge of the field, about twenty feet away. He was about to call out to the man, to command Hale to stay where he was, when a blinding set of headlights caught his peripheral vision. Out of nowhere, a car sped up the path lining the field and headed straight for the gym teacher.

“Hale!” Stiles yelled, already moving toward the man.

He gave Hale a hard push then threw himself up onto the hood of the car, rolling clear across it. He hit the ground with a thud, his body still rolling with the momentum. Stiles didn’t wait for even a second to assess any possible injuries. He rolled onto his feet, pulling his Glock from the ankle holster (he was glad that Coach had instructed the team to carry tonight), aiming it at the tail end of the car speeding away.

Derek Hale was also on his feet and aiming a Glock 23 at the car now rounding out of view. 

Huh.

Hale lowered the weapon then hitched an eyebrow at Stiles.

“You’re not a student,” he said.

“You’re not a gym teacher,” Stiles returned, lowering his own weapon. 

Hale rolled his eyes. “I also teach Health, remember?”

Stiles smirked but nodded seriously. 

“Special Agent Derek Hale, FBI,” Hale announced. 

Stiles raised his eyebrows. “Stilinski. Special Investigations. LAPD.”

It was Hale’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “Not Greenberg then?”

“Pseud,” Stiles replied with a shrug. “Guess you feds don’t get the luxury?”

Hale tilted his head, which Stiles took for partial concession. His face turned dark. “I wanted to make damn sure the killer knew I was related to Cora.”

So Derek was a protective older brother in addition to being a hot FBI agent. Stiles felt like swooning.

Stiles’ phone buzzed with a text message from Reyes: _Clear. Everybody is okay._ Stiles typed a response to let Reyes know he lost the suspect but gave details of what he had seen of the car while rolling to his feet. He glanced up at Hale, who was tapping on his own cell phone, his eyebrows pinched with concern. 

“Cora?” Stiles asked, feeling his own concern.

“She’s okay,” Hale said, and Stiles breathed out a sigh of relief. Hale swept a gaze over Stiles. “What about you? You hurt?”

Now that he mentioned it… “I think I might have broken a couple ribs?” he replied, twisting slightly and touching a hand to his side tenderly. Yeah. He knew those symptoms. 

Hale tucked his sidearm into a shoulder holster hidden under his leather jacket. It was probably the adrenaline making everything ten times hotter than it actually was, but Stiles found this very arousing. He didn’t even know he had a thing – a kink maybe? – for fellow law enforcers. Maybe it was just Special Agent Hale he had a thing for.

“You should probably take a trip to Emergency just to make sure there are no internal injuries,” Hale said reasonably. “I can drive you.”

Stiles generally avoided hospitals (and doctors) if he could get away with it. Based on previous experiences, he was almost positive there were no internal injuries, but he wasn’t about to pass up an offer to ride shotgun with Derek Hale. Plus, he could probably use a new prescription of some high dose pain medication.

Hale brought him to the sleek black Camaro Stiles remembered well from The Wolf Den tryst. He would have been convinced that Hale didn’t remember him at all, except that Stiles caught the flick of a glance Hale gave to the back seat as he got into the car and Stiles would swear that was a blush creeping across the man’s exquisite cheekbones as he settled behind the wheel. 

Oh, he remembered all right, Stiles thought.

“Sooo...” Stiles said once they had driven away from the school on the way to the nearest hospital. He definitely wasn’t going to let Hale out of this one easily. “Did you really not recognize me?” Stiles asked. “Because I gotta say, dude, I’m crushed. I thought I’d be a more memorable fuck.”

Hale’s face flashed with surprise before it settled back into a more neutral expression. He said nothing for a couple of beats. Then he offered weakly, “Your hair is longer now?”

Stiles gave him a look. “Dude.”

Hale sighed, the blush on his cheekbones deepening. Or so Stiles imagined. Because it was dark and he couldn’t really see. But he wanted to believe it was there because it was fucking adorable. “Would you rather I had owned up to having fucked a hot piece of jailbait whom I had decided must have gotten into the bar that night with a fake ID?” Hale said. “I’m an FBI agent. It was better to think you were just someone who looked an awful lot like him than to think I might have actually fucked a teenager.”

So Derek thought he was hot. “So you’re saying I _was_ a memorable fuck then?” Stiles asked. Just for clarification. 

Hale shot him a look. “Is that what you got from all of that?” he asked. Stiles found his exasperation cute. “Fine. Yes. Yes, you were.”

Stiles grinned. 

At the hospital, he sent Reyes a text to let her know that Hale had taken him to the hospital, adding: _fyi – hale is fbi._

Reyes responded with: _be still your heart._

Stiles rolled his eyes.

The call came at five the next morning. Another seventeen-year-old girl from Lincoln High had been strangled, Coach said, her heart missing. The victim this time: Paige Mills.

 _Paige from music_ , Stiles realized.

He set his phone down on the kitchen counter, went to the bathroom, and threw up.

The team was called to the Special Investigations floor later that morning to meet the FBI team that was working the case of the Lincoln High students who had been murdered. There were now three victims, Stiles was reminded, swallowing to keep the nausea at bay.

Coach introduced them to Supervisory Agent Alan Deaton who, in turn, introduced them to “Agents Hale – Derek, Laura, and Peter.” 

Stiles was sure there was joke in there - something along the lines of Huey, Dewey and Louie - but he chose to let it slide. Instead, he turned toward Peter Hale and said, “You’re the creepy janitor dude.”

Peter Hale arched a brow. Yeah. That was definitely a Hale thing.

Stiles turned to Boyd. “I thought you said his name was Norman.”

Boyd gave him a look. “Hank.”

“What?”

“Hank,” Boyd repeated. “ _You_ said he was Norman Bates’ creepy.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah,” Stiles remembered. “Sorry about that,” he told the agent.

Peter Hale shrugged. “It’s okay,” he said. “I get that a lot.”

Stiles caught both Derek and Laura Hale rolling their eyes. 

There was no doubt they were related, he thought. They both had the same high cheekbones and dark colouring. Laura looked like an older version of Cora. Her facial expressions were similar to the younger girl, and Stiles got the impression that, like her sister, Laura Hale was not a woman to be messed with. 

“The victim was abducted last night some time after the concert,” Deaton was saying. “Her body was found in the park by the school by some midnight joggers. She was strangled like the other victims, her heart missing.”

“Paige,” Stiles said softly. Deaton and the rest looked at him. “Her name was Paige,” Stiles told them. He would not treat this victim as nameless.

Deaton nodded, seeming to understand. Derek Hale’s face was grim. Paige had been in Hale’s health class. Stiles knew the man was having as hard a time as Stiles remaining detached. 

The two teams spent the rest of the morning and the afternoon in The Locker Room going over the case files and comparing notes.

“We figure the blackout at the concert was simply a distraction,” Laura Hale told the LAPD team. “A way of maybe drawing certain people out. Might account for why Derek was almost run down.”

Hale flicked a glance at Stiles. Stiles could read the ‘thank you’ in his expression.

“Anyone not accounted for during or immediately after the blackout?” Stiles asked, directing a look at Lahey, Boyd and Reyes.

“As far as we could tell,” Reyes responded, “Harris, Blake and Matt Daehler. But they could have been overlooked in our sweep check.”

“I noted the same three were not accounted for in my sweep,” Peter Hale confirmed.

Eyebrows were raised all around. 

Lahey efficiently moved Harris, Blake and Daehler to the top of the suspect list.

It was after eight. Peter and Laura Hale as well as the rest of Stiles’ team had bowed out an hour earlier, which left Stiles alone in The Locker Room with Hale going over further details of the case.

Hale placed another file folder onto the stack in the middle of the table then directed a gaze at Stiles. “So how old are you really?” he asked.

“Twenty-six,” Stiles replied. “Well, _technically_ twenty-five,” he clarified, “but I’ll be twenty-six in a couple of weeks.”

Hale shook his head. “You really do look seventeen.”

Stiles grinned. “You disappointed? Got a thing for banging teenagers?” he teased. “Maybe got a bit of an age difference kink there too?” Stiles winked at him. “Just so you know, I’m totally down with some teacher-student role playing if that’s the kind of thing you’re into.”

Hale rolled his eyes and snorted. Stiles made a note that he didn’t deny having any such kinks or fantasies. 

They started packing up the files and prepared to go home. 

“Give me a lift?” Hale asked as they stepped onto the elevator. “I, uh, came with Laura and Peter,” he explained, a hint of a blush creeping over those magnificent cheekbones.

Definitely adorable, Stiles thought as he pushed the button for the main floor.

He didn’t want to be presumptuous, but since Hale didn’t provide his own address, Stiles assumed the man was okay with Stiles bringing him home to _his_ place. 

It turned out Stiles hadn’t needed to worry because the FBI agent had him up against the back of the door to his apartment two seconds after Stiles had let them in. 

“You live in a box,” Derek murmured against Stiles’ neck.

“’s called a bachelor’s apar— _nngghh_ ,” Stiles responded, as Hale nipped and licked at the skin there. 

“Fuck, I’m glad you’re not seventeen,” Hale said. “’Cause I’ve been wanting to put my cock back in you since you showed up in gym class that day.”

Stiles made a noise that he hoped conveyed how much he liked where Hale was going with this train of thought. He hitched himself up, wrapping his legs around Hale’s hips, assaulting the man’s mouth hotly with lips and tongue. Hale responded by thrusting his pelvis forward, grinding into Stiles, a movement Stiles was very much in favour of, although, to be perfectly honest, he’d prefer it with pants off. 

He may have mumbled something to this effect because Hale was now sucking at his earlobe, grunting out, “Condoms?” 

“Bathroom,” Stiles told him, breathless. He tilted his head in the general direction, which was less than two feet from where Hale had him pressed up against the door. He lived in a box, remember?

Hale didn’t bother detaching Stiles, carrying him to the bathroom, mouthing at his neck and jaw. In the tiny bathroom, Stiles simply leaned to pull open the cabinet drawer, grabbing a fist full of condom packages with one hand and snagging the bottle of lube with the other. Hale carted him back into the main room, moving toward the sofa bed that was already open (it was rarely closed as Stiles didn’t get many guests) and made up (if by ‘made up’, you counted a quilt bunched up on the mattress and a pillow thrown into the mix). 

Hale dropped him on the sofa bed and crawled up his body, his lips never leaving Stiles’ mouth. Stiles remembered what a helluva sex multi-tasker Hale had been that first time and was looking forward to putting the FBI agent to the test. 

The man did not disappoint. 

Two hours later, Stiles was coming down from a second orgasm, hurting in all the right places. Hale was panting beside him, coming down from his own high. Stiles gave the man a gentle shove over so that he could settle into his usual sleep-groove and haphazardly flung an arm over Hale’s sweat-sticky body. 

Stiles hoped the FBI agent wasn’t a snorer. The thought quickly faded as Stiles promptly drifted off to sleep.

He woke to dull aches – some good, some bad – and to Hale’s arm wrapped tightly around him.

“You’re still here,” Stiles said almost disbelievingly. 

“You gave me a ride home, remember?” Hale murmured, his eyes still closed. “Not awake enough yet to call a taxi.”

“Do you want to call a taxi?” Stiles asked. He wasn’t going to lie – his hook-ups rarely spent the night. It was early morning and Hale was still in his bed. Already this was new territory for Stiles. 

“Not particularly,” Hale mumbled, pulling Stiles in closer to his body. “Go back to sleep.”

Stiles did what he was told. 

His dad and Scott would be proud.

They had sex again when they woke up more fully the next time. Stiles decided he could easily become addicted to sex with Special Agent Derek Hale.

“Come to the shooting range with me this afternoon,” Stiles invited later, after they had showered together (and had awesome shower sex, of course) and Hale was getting redressed. How had he not noticed before how hot it was to tuck a Glock into the holster of a shoulder harness? Fuck, he wanted to jump Hale. Again. 

“Would love to,” Hale said. “But I’ve got a lunch date with my sister.”

“Cora?” 

“Laura.”

Stiles had to ask. “So, what’s it like working with your sister and your uncle?” To be honest, Stiles couldn’t imagine working with his dad. And that was even given that his dad was awesome, not to mention the best sheriff Beacon Hills ever had. Scott was the closet thing he had to a brother but Stiles couldn’t imagine working with him either. He’d probably shoot Scott within thirty seconds if he did.

“Complicated.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows. 

“Laura is a little…intense,” Hale explained. “And Peter is…well, he’s Norman Bates creepy.”

Stiles laughed. “I so called it.”

“You did,” Hale said with a chuckle. 

Stiles followed Hale to the door. He gave the agent’s shoulder a pat and said with mock-seriousness, “Hey, let’s be careful out there.” 

Hale’s eyebrows pinched together. “You’re weird,” he said but then his mouth spread into a grin. 

Huh. So it looked like Special Agent Hale was a fan of eighties cop dramas, after all. 

Stiles might just fall in love.

“So. You’re a cop,” Cora said, not even bothering to look up from the paper she was writing on.

Stiles had given Cora a lift home after school so they could work on the chemistry lab report due at the end of the week. (Granted, that was if Harris didn’t turn out to be the killer.)

“Derek wasn’t supposed to tell you,” Stiles said.

“He didn’t,” Cora replied. “Uncle Peter did.” She looked up at Stiles now. “He also said that you and my brother are having a ‘thing’.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it a ‘thing’…” Stiles said. Were he and Derek having a ‘thing’? It would be kind of awesome if they were, he thought, but he wasn’t sure that twice hooking up counted as anything but a hook-up.

Cora gave him a dry look. 

“Look,” Stiles said. “We’re still buds, right? Just because I’m a cop doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.” At least, Stiles hoped this was the case. He liked being Cora’s friend. He didn’t want to give that up.

“You’re twenty-five,” Cora said flatly. “And you’re dating my brother.”

Stiles tilted his head to partially concede. He wouldn’t go as far as to say that he and Special Agent Hale were ‘dating’ but he understood what Cora was getting at. She was a teenager. Stiles wasn’t. She was an actual senior student at Lincoln High. He was a cop with the LAPD. Still, this didn’t mean they couldn’t be buds – at least on some level. He told Cora as much, giving her his best learned-from-Scott puppy eyes.

“Okay, okay,” Cora said, rolling her eyes. “We can still be buds.” She scrunched up her nose. “Just don’t tell me anything about what you do with my brother,” she warned him. “Or I’ll punch you in the face.”

“Deal,” Stiles said with a wink.

Stiles was on his way to the library for his free period when he ran into Allison and Jennifer Blake in the hallway.

“Alli--” he started then quickly corrected, “Ms. McCall? Is there something the matter?”

“Not feeling well,” Allison told him, rubbing a hand over her round belly. “Ms. Blake suggested I see the school nurse.”

“Oh. Well, I can take you,” Stiles immediately said, causing Jennifer Blake to raise an eyebrow. “You know, so Ms. Blake can get back to her class,” he added, giving both women a smile. He caught Allison’s eye and knew that they were on the same page. 

Allison readily went with Stiles, reassuring Jennifer Blake (to the point of practically insisting) that she would be in good hands. Blake stood in the hall and watched them go, which was more than a little creepy if you asked Stiles.

Allison waited until they were around the corner before saying to Stiles, “There’s something not right about her. She was asking me all kinds of personal questions in the teacher’s lounge this morning.” She rubbed her belly again. “Call me paranoid, but I think she put something in my tea.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow and gently hurried Allison along. The baby wasn’t due for another few weeks but he wasn’t willing to take any chances. He was thumbing a text to Reyes to meet them at the nurse’s station when Allison suddenly stopped, pressing both hands to her belly.

“I think the baby’s coming,” she said. Stiles caught the panic in her voice.

Stiles quickly modified his text to Reyes and then started typing another one to send to Scott

_It’s showtime, buddy._

They sent Allison off to the hospital in an ambulance, the paramedics confirming that she had, indeed, started into labour. Stiles wanted to go with her but, as seventeen-year-old Greenberg, he couldn’t very well do so without raising eyebrows and a lot of questions. Reyes, however, insisted on accompanying Allison (she told the principal and paramedics that she had midwife training, which wasn’t entirely untrue), for which Stiles was grateful. He called Scott from the privacy of the east wing boys’ bathroom, talking his best friend down from the freak out ledge (it was actually Examination Room 3 of Scott’s vet practice) he had gone out onto when Stiles had sent his text.

When he was assured that Scott was calm enough to get in the taxi Stiles had sent to the veterinarian clinic (what? Stiles had had very good emergency response training and had had nearly twenty years of experience dealing with Scott), Stiles went to his locker to get his stuff. Students were supposed to get permission to leave the school, but Stiles figured he’d just have to deal with any repercussions for breaking the rules later.

Ms. Blake caught up with him when he was halfway to the front entrance. 

“So I heard Allison – Mrs. McCall – was taken to hospital,” the English teacher said.

“Yeah. She went into early labour,” Stiles told her. 

Ms. Blake expressed surprise. It might have been Stiles’ over-imaginative cop senses, but it looked fake. “Oh dear. I hope she and the baby are okay.” She raised an eyebrow at the backpack slung over Stiles’ shoulder. “Are you leaving?” she asked.

“Uh…” Stiles began, his mind racing for a quick excuse. When he was an actual teenager, excuses-on-the-spot had been his trademark. His job as undercover cop also frequently necessitated coming up with ready excuses but, for some reason, his mind was drawing a blank now.

Jennifer Blake smiled. “It’s been quite an exciting day,” she said. She seemed to consider for a moment. “I’ll grant you permission to leave early, but could I ask you to do me a favour first, Stiles?”

Stiles understood that her permission was conditional upon him doing the favour. “Sure,” he said levelly. 

The teacher smiled again. “I just need your help getting some supplies out of my car,” she told him. “It shouldn’t take more than five minutes.”

In retrospect, Stiles should have seen it coming.

Still, when he went to help Ms. Blake get the supplies from her car, he was zapped from behind and pushed into the trunk before he could even register what was happening and execute some form of defense. He cursed as Ms. Blake shut the trunk closed, leaving him paralyzed from the neck down and shrouded in darkness. 

Fuck. 

This was not how he had planned for this to go.

It turned out that trying to judge distance and gage landmarks from bumps in the road while riding – paralyzed, he might add - in the trunk of a car was much easier in the movies than real life. Jennifer Blake might have driven a few blocks or into the next state, for all Stiles fucking knew. 

He was still mostly paralyzed when the trunk opened and Ms. Blake leaned in, pressing a sweet-smelling cloth to his nose and mouth. _Chloroform_ , Stiles had time to think, _how cliché_ before he succumbed to darkness once more.

He came to in what looked like some kind of a lamp-lit root cellar. The cellar was mostly overgrown with a few rotted crates and boxes strewn around. In the corner, Stiles saw a flatbed trolley, which he guessed Blake must have transported him on. He visualized his unconscious body being pulled and then shoved out of the trunk and onto the trolley, which was used to cart him into the root cellar. He didn’t have to wonder where his current aches and pains had come from. Blake likely hadn’t cared much about his comfort during transport.

Stiles was no longer paralyzed but his brain was still a little foggy. He shook his head to clear it and took stock of his current situation. He was sitting on a chair, his hands tied with rope behind him. Both of his ankles were also secured to the chair with rope. Stiles tested the soundness of the restraints.

Ms. Blake sure knew how to tie a knot. Stiles was impressed. 

Being tied to a chair in a root cellar was as almost as clichéd as being stuffed in a trunk and chloroformed into unconsciousness, Stiles thought. Reyes was going to tease him about this for eternity. It was true that being tied up _was_ a fantasy of his, but Stiles had always envisioned it under different circumstances.

“Full moon tonight,” Jennifer Blake said suddenly, interrupting Stiles’ bondage fantasies. “Perfect for a sacrifice, don’t you think?”

Stiles was almost afraid to ask. “Sacrifice?” 

“Yes,” Blake said, now moving into the light. Her expression was strangely gleeful. “Do you think I killed those girls to achieve some sort of psychological gratification?” She huffed with disdain. “Those killings were sacrifices, detective,” she told him. “The first sacrifice required a virgin, the second a scribe, the third a poet. The fourth sacrifice requires a guardian. You’re a cop,” she said. “You’ll do nicely.”

“So you killed those girls as _sacrifices_?” Stiles said, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that not only did Blake know he was a cop but that the victims were chosen according to particular characteristics – one was supposedly a virgin, one was a writer, and one was a musical poet. 

“The sacrifices are necessary to open the portal,” she maintained with conviction.

Yeah. Stiles had to ask. “What portal?”

“The one to the other universe,” Ms. Blake explained and Stiles could hear the implied ‘duh’ tacked onto to the end of that sentence. Rude. 

His eyebrows hitched up. “Okaaay. Just so we’re clear,” he said. “You’re a crazy lady.”

Jennifer Blake gave him a sardonic look. Correction. She was a crazy lady with a tendency toward sarcasm. Definitely a deadly combination. 

“And just out of curiosity,” Stiles said further, because he never could let anything be, especially when his life was about to be snuffed out. “This universe. Is it an alternative universe where there is another you and another me? Because, for the record, that would be pretty cool. Or are we talking about a whole different universe altogether, one where, like, tribbles are at the top of the food chain or something? Because I gotta say, that doesn’t sound as cool as a doppleganger verse.”

Ms. Blake fixed him with a look. “Do you ever shut up?”

“What can I say, I’ve got an active imagination,” Stiles told her. “Mind you, it’s not as active as _yours--_ ”

“Shut up!” Blake commanded sharply. Stiles wondered how they had missed the obvious mental instability before. She moved toward Stiles, a length of thin rope in her hand. “Time for the last sacrifice.”

Stiles struggled against the ropes, knowing it was useless, but he really didn’t want to be Blake’s final sacrifice – portal to another (and potentially cool) universe be damned. It would kill his dad and Scott to go out this way, strangled, his heart carved out. 

He really wanted to ask how that part figured into the whole sacrifice thing (what? he was a curious person by nature) but Blake had already moved behind him and was stretching the rope taut against his throat, restricting his ability to breath never mind talk.

She leaned in close to his ear. “Hale was easy to figure out,” she said. “He made a lousy gym teacher, don’t you think? But you. Took me longer to peg you as an undercover cop. You really do look seventeen. And, just for the record,” Stiles felt her smile against his ear, “I think your impression of Huxley is spot on. He was a pervert.”

She gripped the rope and pulled it back, tightening it against Stiles’ windpipe. Not only was Ms. Blake a master at tying knots, Stiles acknowledged, but she was surprisingly strong and skilled at using a ligature. 

Stiles was fucked. 

He felt his eyes starting to roll back in his head as the breath and life was squeezed out of him. Stiles barely registered Hale charging into the cellar, aiming his Glock and firing, the shot zipping straight over Stiles’ left shoulder and into Jennifer Blake’s head. 

She dropped quickly. The ligature loosened immediately and fell to the floor. Derek moved toward him, gun still raised, Boyd, Reyes and Lahey rushing in behind him. 

“Helluva shot,” Stiles rasped out, his throat dry from lack of oxygen. “Think I’m in love.”

Hale holstered his weapon and grinned. Then he cupped the back of Stiles’ neck with his hand, pulled him gently forward, and pressed his lips to Stiles’. Reyes was working on the rope binding his hands and as soon as he was free, Stiles wrapped his arms around Hale’s neck and kissed him back with gusto. 

“Seriously?” Lahey huffed. “You guys are going to do that _now_?”

“Told you they were boning,” Reyes quipped gleefully. 

Stiles ignored them. 

“You okay?” Hale asked, finally drawing back, his fingers running gently over the marks on Stiles’ neck left by the ligature.

Stiles nodded. He could breath again and he still had his heart. Win. “How’d you find me?”

“Put a tracking device on Blake’s car,” Hale told him. 

Stiles gave the man a besotted look. “Yeah. I’m definitely in love.”

Derek chuckled. “Idiot,” he said fondly.

From behind Stiles, Boyd let out a loud snort.

“Stiles! Stop hogging the baby!” Scott huffed.

Stiles looked at an eagerly waiting Melissa McCall then reluctantly handed baby Merida over to her grandmother. 

Scott shot Derek a sympathetic look. “You know he’s going to want one now, right?”

Stiles gaped then spluttered as Scott, Allison and Melissa all laughed. 

Derek leaned in. “Not gonna lie,” he said into Stiles’ ear. “You with a baby is a bit of a turn on.”

Stiles raised his eyebrows. “Oh, so men with babies. Another one of your kinks, huh?” Stiles whispered back. 

Derek grinned. “Not men,” he said. “You.”

“Why Special Agent Hale,” Stiles said coyly. “You’re making me blush.”

“I’m gonna do more than that later tonight,” Derek promised, a lustful glint in his eye.

Stiles actually did blush now. “Shhh,” he whispered loudly to Derek. “We don’t want to offend Scott’s delicate sensibilities. Not in front of his baby.”

Scott turned and narrowed his eyes at Stiles. Derek tipped his head back and laughed.

Man, it was great not being a teenager anymore, Stiles thought.

**Author's Note:**

> Stiles, Erica, Boyd and Isaac are part of the LAPD’s Special Investigations Division under the leadership of Finstock. Allison is a history teacher at Lincoln High School and is married to Scott who is a veterinarian and Stiles’ best friend. Jennifer Blake, Adrian Harris and Deucalion are teachers at the same school. Lydia, Jackson, Danny, Cora, Ethan and Aidan are all students at Lincoln High School. Derek is an FBI agent who is part of an elite team that includes his sister Laura and his uncle Peter under the direction of Alan Deaton. Other minor characters (Matt, Heather, Danielle, Paige, Jared, Ennis, Greenberg) also make an appearance.


End file.
